


no hope of a cure

by lyin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Mansfield Park Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22890310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyin/pseuds/lyin
Summary: A Mansfield Park AU“No one’s meant to be a compass to someone else,” Brienne said, sliding her hand away from his on the railing. “That would be—quite a lot of work.”“Compasses break, you know,” Mr. Lannister said. He reached for her again, his ungloved fingers closing around her bare wrist. Even Brienne’s wrist was far from dainty, but Jaime Lannister was able to close his fingers fully around its circle, his grip urgent, but not tight. “Some men need the luck of spotting a constant star, if they’re ever to find their way from wandering in the dark. Am I not supposed to follow a star, when I spy one?”
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, background Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell
Comments: 42
Kudos: 101





	1. young people of fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this all today. And believe me, 'come up with a very lazy Mansfield Park AU at lunch that takes over your mind all day, including the rest of work' was very much dead last on the list of things I need to be doing, but, well, at least I'm writing, here we go, and yes, I may be the worst updater you've ever heard of (... in the extremely unlikely case you've heard of me...), but far too much of this is written, so here's the first 5500 some words, in case it'll make anyone's night. cheers and thanks for reading if you do <3
> 
> in which Westeros is a little bit different under an 1812-esque Regency, Storm's End plays the part of Mansfield Park, the Lannisters are loosely the Crawfords, Brienne gets to be a very robust Fanny Price, & since Renly is the Edmund Bertram, you know how this is NOT going to end.
> 
> ...also yes I decided in Westeros Lord's sons are plain misters until they assume the title with 'my lord'/'my lady' sometimes sprinkled in as honorific where appropriate... also a shameful lack of research went into this minus the five seconds I spent Googling High Valyrian and crushing it into an approximate replacement for En Garde/ Allez. you have been fairly warned: ives!

The seat of Bronzegate had been bought, which brought plenty of grumbling to Storm’s End. Enough money, and the ear of the Prince Regent, being enough to undo entail these days was bad enough—but the problem was the purchaser.

Lord Steffon Baratheon could be heard proclaiming to everyone from his wife to the nearest scullery maid that Tywin Lannister would soon find to his peril not all things were for sale. But Bronzegate, Storm’s End nearest neighbor by land, had very surely been for sale, and would shortly be the home of Tywin Lannister’s second, and notably shorter, son.

Brienne of Tarth, Storm’s End nearest neighbor by sea, had spent the better part of eight years installed in the Baratheon household as the young companion to its Lady. Admiral Tarth was more away than not, as long as war raged in the Summer Sea, and nothing was more precious to his daughter than the few months spent at home in Evenfall during his leave. Only one person came close: the youngest son of House Baratheon, closest to her own age, was her particular friend. Aside from her greying pony in the stables, Renly Baratheon was, perhaps, her only friend.

When he’d been away at school, life would be bland and dutiful; but he was back, with no plans beyond Storm’s End, and the days were fruit-sweet, with time for dancing and riding, and if more hours than not were spent listening to Renly complain, about his parents or his brothers or the school friends he missed and might be long in seeing again, it had to be granted that Renly’s voice was more than pleasant even then, and that he never failed to find humor, even in his long-winded woes.

Brienne kept her woes to herself, though she did have them. Storm’s End was no Evenfall Hall, the home she missed almost as much as her father and saw exactly as rarely. She did not have a living brother to complain about, as Renly did his; Galladon Tarth had drowned and long ago become more memory than boy. Her schooling had occurred entirely between two households, so she had no school friends to speak of or miss. She had, well… Renly. But Renly was a fine enough substitute for the rest. He was also her greatest woe:

Quietly, she loved him, with no hope of return. But what did that matter, when she could be near him, when hers was the listening ear he turned to? Best of all, he’d helped her keep up her fencing lessons, since he’d first arranged for her instructor from Tarth to follow her from Storm’s End, after finding her crying over missing it when she was a girl and he not much older. If he didn’t always attend the lessons himself, it only told her more that he’d done that for her, and not for his own training at all—though their fencing lessons certainly gave him a long-standing excuse to give his lord father, when he’d prefer to be elsewhere. 

Brienne had little to do with the other Baratheon brothers. They’d been away, for most of her youth, first at school in the Eyrie, while Renly attended the less-renowned academy at Highgarden, and then simply away. Stannis had followed the classic path of a second son and taken an officer’s commission. As a navy man himself, he brought a message from her father on his visits, always much more curt in Stannis’ mouth than it would sound in Admiral Tarth’s, and had risen to a respectably captaincy.

Robert, though… Brienne considered Robert Baratheon something of a romantic tragedy. He had always been a rogue, but a cheerful one, treating her as more of an amusement than Renly. If he remembered Brienne was about, he’d ruffle her hair, compare their height, treat her like a boy—he was loud enough that his comments of what he thought of her face and form tended to carry, but it was no worse than Brienne heard whispered and he didn’t feign thinking any differently to her face.

He’d roared laughing over hearing about her two attempts to sneak off, dressed as a boy, to follow her father to sea, during her early visits. And he’d told her outright once, with words that had stayed searingly with her, “Gods be damned, girl, if it weren’t for your sex, you’d be shaping up to be a perfect man, and had you more shape to go with your spirit, quite a woman—” and when his mother hushed him, horrified by his words to their young guest, Robert had concluded with, “I tell you this, my wife will love you, Miss-of-Tarth”—Robert never did remember her name—“likely my wife will love you more than me!”

But that was exactly the trouble: Robert’s wife-to-be had, indeed, found someone she loved more than him, far more, by all tellings but Robert’s own. Lyanna Stark had wound up entangled in scandal with the Crown Prince, and the Crown Prince was hardly a person even the Baratheon heir could challenge to a duel. Robert, and the girl’s brothers, had petitioned the Council, but the Council of the Seven Kingdoms had declined to even wrist-slap Rhaegar Targaryen… who, off key testimony on his father’s madness, had in short order ascended to Prince Regent, buried his wife—the Crown Princess proved dutiful even in the too-perfect timing of her death—and married the Stark girl. Robert had been paid, reportedly with gold right from Casterly Rock’s mines, more than double Lyanna Stark’s dowry… for his pains. 

Robert Baratheon had descended into dissolution in the ten years since. He was off drinking, gambling, and, with that payment long since spent, rapidly blowing his family’s fortune in whorehouses, and every indication was one vice or the other would off _him_ , soon enough. 

In recent years, ‘what will we do when Robert dies’ had become a common element of Renly’s conversation. It never failed to make Brienne squirm; the latest conversation was no different, except that she had a brand-new direction to divert the topic.

“Have you met Mr. Lannister yet?” she asked Renly, when his musings turned far too morbid for their morning ride.

“Mr. Lannister?” Renly repeated, slowing his horse. “Ah. You mean Mr. Tyrion Lannister.”

“The Imp, not the Kingslayer,” Brienne said, for she knew both only by reputation, and that made Renly flash a bright, stomach-dropping smile, “only one of them is newly our neighbor.”

“Oh, not for long,” Renly said lazily, “like the pride they think themselves—or golden vermin, if you ask Robert, or Stannis, for that matter, one of the few points they’ll agree on—” He caught himself and continued, before he went off on the usual tangent. “Where one appears, the others tend to be trailing behind.”

More sharply, he added, “Lord Lannister doesn’t shit a single gold dragon without intent, and if his buying Bronzegate isn’t entirely to do with Storm’s End, I’ll…” Renly paused, reaching for a figure of speech both adequate to his emotion and polite enough to use in front of Brienne, and wound up simply spurring his horse back up to their usual pace. 

Brienne considered Renly's belief slightly vain—the Baratheons might be important, but surely a lord could acquire property, in the Stormlands or not, for a second son without factoring them into it—but for all that she was highborn, too, Renly knew more of courtly circles than she did. As usual, she took his word for it.

He had the right of it. Mr. Tyrion Lannister had not finished his move, nor had they even had sight of him from Storm’s End, before his brother and sister arrived to join him at Bronzegate. The Lannister twins swept into the neighboring area with all the brightness of twin suns in summer, looking the part. Their dazzle was all the talk of Storm’s End, even more so than their reputation.

Miss Cersei Lannister’s reputation was not so harsh: the greatest beauty in the kingdoms, the whispers went, kept very pointedly unmarried with the Crown Prince’s wife so sickly so long, and then, just as poor Elia Martell conveniently left the world right as the Prince took the Regency… a girl even younger and more beautiful chosen in her place. It had looked, for a long time, Lyanna Stark would go the way of Rhaegar’s first wife—all of sixteen and so nearly dead in childbed, saved only by the care of all the Citadels’ finest Maesters. So sick, for so long after… But Lyanna Targaryen, in the flower of health again, remained queen, of the flowers and otherwise, and Cersei Lannister remained unwed. If Brienne hadn’t thought it so horrible, the Lannisters hovering like hopeful harpies awaiting a young woman’s death, _twice_ , she’d have found that romantically sad, too.

Mr. Jaime Lannister was another issue altogether: the King had been Mad, and the Prince Regent was sensible, and no one was sorry for the Regency, but it was also a fact that it had been done by deceit. Whether he lied for his father or lied for his Prince, Jaime Lannister’s testimony had put the King aside. Never mind that everyone knew he was lying, under oath, he’d given the Council what they needed. Even loyalists didn’t fault him for it… to his face. The whispers around the realm faulted him plenty. 

Brienne saw them approaching from a distance, the beautiful sister on the arm of her equally-beautiful brother, while his other hand twirled a ridiculous-looking walking stick. Her curiosity was overridden by dismay. Renly, for all his pronounced dislike of the Lannisters, always surrounded himself by lovely company. Though she tried to have as little vanity as possible, knowing herself to be quite _un_ lovely, she would suffer in contrast… and be grouped by all, no doubt, with the third of their party. Riding while his siblings walked, for an entrance in style, Mr. Tyrion Lannister managed to descend with sprightliness from a saddle that looked specially designed.

Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana greeted the Lannisters warmly enough. Miss Lannister was gracious; Mr. Tyrion charming, quoting something about the Storm Queens of old while kissing Lady Cassanda’s hand… Mr. Lannister was stiff, as he eyed Lord Steffon, and shook his hand; he had a smarmy expression while he greeted Renly, with a mutter too low for Brienne to catch but which set Renly’s jaw clenching.

“And which relative must this be?” Mr. Tyrion asked politely, when he spied Brienne. Her height made it impossible to disappear into the background on first acquaintance; it was a trick she managed over time, until most visitors came to see her as furniture. Mr. Tyrion Lannister, born a dwarf, seemed wise to her tricks immediately. “Great height, I see, never fails to run in House Baratheon.”

“Miss Tarth, actually,” Renly said, and Brienne shot him a grateful look as he jumped in—

“Your betrothed?” Mr. Lannister drawled, all feigned politeness as he aimed the end of his walking stick pointedly at Renly. Everyone froze, and Brienne _hated_ the man, immediately. She wanted to snap the ostentatious lion head right off his walking stick.

“N-no,” she said, hastening to clarify before she had to hear Renly object. “Lord and Lady Baratheon are kind enough to host me while my father is at sea. Admiral Tarth… of Tarth.”

Mr. Lannister paused a second. “I haven’t heard of him,” he said, as if he’d heard of everyone, and his brother rushed to talk over him.

“I suspect your father, being an Admiral, is often at sea?” Mr. Tyrion asked, giving her an escape. Aside from a cheekiness, Brienne saw nothing impish about him.

“More often than not, the past eight years,” she said, and Miss Lannister, suddenly, swooped.

“In this household of boys!” she said, linking her arm with Brienne’s, to Brienne’s utter shock. “I am sure you bring Lady Cassana great comfort indeed, but with no companions of your own age, these years, is a lonely lot for a young lady. I would know. Though, both of my brothers have so far failed to provide me with a good sister. Captain Stannis Baratheon, at least, is married?”

“Stannis was widowed, recently, though his wife kept her own household,” Brienne said, baffled. Cersei Lannister was a decade her senior, though she didn’t look it, not so much a companion of her own age, but she seemed eager, suddenly, to gossip like girls, to take Brienne on a turn about the room. Brienne felt the contrast of their sizes acutely—Miss Lannister was not a short woman, but Brienne felt herself drafted into the part of a gentleman, escorting her about, and despite how she might be better built for that part… it was never one she had longed to play.

“Are you _out_ in society, Miss Tarth?” Miss Lannister asked her. “For I have not seen you at King’s Landing—I think we would recall.”

Brienne was unsure if that was the royal we or if Miss Lannister meant herself and her brothers, or one brother in particular, the one who seemed as much Miss Lannister’s accessory walking up as the walking stick was his own.

“I am out, but not in,” was Brienne’s answer, which Miss Lannister awarded her as very clever, indeed, though it wasn’t in the least, and Brienne was not sure whether to believe the other woman's warm laugh or her narrowed eyes. The horrible thing about circling about the room, while it did truly allow for confidence in conversation and a chance to stretch the legs, was it put you on parade for everyone else; Lord Steffon Baratheon certainly kept watching Miss Lannister’s swishing skirts, and Mr. Lannister, every muscle tensed, watched their every rotation.

It was with great relief, despite Miss Lannister’s pronounced reluctance to go, that she and Brienne must be great friends during their stay of at least a month, that as kindred spirits they must see each other nearly every day, Brienne watched the Lannisters depart. Renly whisked her off to the kitchen, as soon as he could.

“What did she ask you?” Renly said, after, grabbing Brienne’s arms with some urgency. She flushed, to be held by him, but also shook him off; he’d grabbed her quite tightly.

Brienne did not think he’d be interested in Cersei’s accounts of her dressmakers’ latest efforts. Nor was she the fool Miss Lannister clearly thought her: she’d caught the drift of their conversation… at least after the second careful questions.

“Robert’s movements,” Brienne said, and Renly sucked in a breath, more of confirmation than surprise. “Robert’s health. Your parents’ health, too. And the timing of Stannis’ leave. I think…”

“The Lannisters mean to take Storm’s End, by one of my fool brothers or the other,” Renly said grimly. His brothers often called him a fool; he seemed to relish returning the favor.

“Miss Lannister is very beautiful,” Brienne said hesitantly—to her immense surprise and delight, Renly rolled his eyes in dismissal—“but neither Robert nor Stannis seem quite likely to marry for—”

“I rather think she’s enough a cat in heat to capture either of them,” Renly said, between his teeth.

“Stannis?” Brienne said, doubtfully.

“Stannis is weak enough to what that woman is strong in,” Renly said.

“But not you,” Brienne said warmly, and Renly, picking up a peach from the kitchen fruit bushel, turned it around in his hand, saying, “Hmm, well, third son and all, she’s not after me,” but didn’t disagree.

“Renly,” Brienne said, “what was it Mr. Lannister said that bothered you so?” At his blank expression, she added, “When they arrived,” and only then realized his expression was deliberate, not confusion.

Airily, between bites of his peach, Renly said, “Oh, he simply sent regards, from a school friend I haven’t heard from in a while.”

Brienne thought a moment. “From Loras Tyrell?”

Renly choked on his peach. When he recovered, he gasped, “How—how did you—"

“He’s the only one you ever really talk about,” Brienne said, hovering, longing to rub Renly’s back, as he kept coughing, but not wishing to overstep.

“I suppose he is.” Renly finally smiled, wanly. “I haven’t seen him since I graduated from Highgarden.”

“You could always invite him for a visit,” Brienne suggested, though she had very vehemently not enjoyed herself, on previous occasions Renly’s school friends had visited.

“Not, I think, so long as the Lannisters reside in Bronzegate.” Renly sounded ominous. “I do, at least, have you, to go into battle with me.”

It was the stuff of Brienne’s dreams, hearing that from Renly. It was, however, in the worst circumstances. “This… is not the sort of battle I’m suited for.”

Renly pointed a peach-sticky finger at her. “You can distract Lannister.”

Brienne looked away. “Tyrion Lannister was pleasant enough, but—"

“No, the Kingslayer,” Renly said, and then began laughing. He tapped under her chin. “Close your mouth; it’s not so unlikely."

“It isn’t?” Brienne said, dazed. If Renly thought a man who looked like that, might pay any mind to her, what must he really think—

“He’s a renowned fencer, you goose, you must know that of him! He’ll be itching for an opponent, away from his clubs. Not to say he’d deign to come over to fight you, but if I ask him over—he’ll drub me, certainly—”

“You’re an above average fencer,” Brienne protested.

Renly laughed, again. He looked at her, as if sizing her up. “You’re taller than him, by a touch, and much heavier.” He missed Brienne’s flinch, focused on his plotting. “That might give you an advantage; he won’t expect you to be fast, too. You might be able to take him, my old girl.”

Brienne had never been able to decide if she liked when Renly called her that or not. It was the same chummy sort of expression he used with his school friend. She just wished it wasn’t… quite that nickname.

“Let’s put them on the back foot, from the beginning,” Renly said, and when he held out his hand to clasp… of course, Brienne took it.

Bronzegate was a half-day’s ride away, and Storm’s End enormous; a proper visit, between great houses, must therefore include a week’s comfortable stay, with the favor then returned. In centuries past the Houses made war with each other, with even hospitality at times betrayed. In the modern age… barring the occasional scandal, they killed each other with kindnesses. Renly promptly obtained his father’s approval and sent a formal invitation the next day. The Lannisters returned, with bags, within three nights; Brienne was only surprised they took that long.

The Lannisters ordered themselves carefully when they joined the table at dinner. Renly had arranged the seating, but Miss Lannister took the seat intended for Mr. Lannister beside Lord Steffon, leaving Mr. Jaime Lannister to flatter Lady Cassana.

Mr. Tyrion sat between Renly and Brienne, toasting them both and keeping up enough conversation for the whole table—as well as taking in enough wine, without slipping into drunkenness, Brienne began wondering if he was pouring it somewhere or simply able to outdrink Robert Baratheon.

Brienne made it through dinner without needing to say much, only refusing, again and again, as Tyrion and Renly by habit went to refill her cup each time they refreshed their own. Miss Lannister made one comment about her quiet, but Brienne let a shrug serve as her response—the Lannisters seemed to find that amusing enough—and finished her meal.

The next morning, on Renly’s invitation, Mr. Lannister walked into Storm’s End fencing yard on, with his sister on one arm and his brother, eyebrows raised, following after.

“What’s with the wench?” Mr. Lannister said, as immediately as he took in his surroundings, and Miss Lannister hissed, “Jaime!”

“I’m afraid my brother doesn’t know the meaning of the word decorum,” Mr. Tyrion said, smoothly.

Mr. Lannister, visibly annoyed, said, “In fact, your brother does, but decorum’s been fairly defenestrated when ladies are wearing breeches.” He jabbed his walking stick in Brienne’s direction, or, more specifically, at said tight, white breeches.

“Forgive my brother,” Miss Lannister said—Brienne could not recall the last time she’d heard so many people going around reminding everyone of their relationship, ‘brother’ this, ‘sister’ that; the Baratheons certainly didn’t bother—“He’s used to King’s Landing fashions, and few can pull off breeches so boldly.”

“I wear them to fence,” Brienne said, looking down. She felt exposed, where she normally felt comfortable, in her practice gear. “Skirts are—not the easiest course, for practice, when not required.”

The Lannisters were quiet for a moment.

“It’s rare to find a woman fencer,” Mr. Lannister said, unreadable, and Miss Lannister hastened to add, “Not so _very_ rare, as all that, but then you, Miss Tarth, have some rare advantages!”

Mr. Tyrion Lannister came to sit next to Brienne. His eyebrows remained arched.

“Yes?” Brienne said, at last, uncomfortably.

“Very interesting,” Mr. Tyrion Lannister said, casting his voice low, the more so as Miss Lannister came to sit beside them, “that we’ve come to see a friendly bout between my brother and the young Mr. Renly, and find you equally dressed for sport.”

Brienne muttered something about helping him warm up, eyes focused on her lap.

“You prefer to poke your target, don’t you, Renly?” Mr. Lannister called, as he inspected their rack of blades. “I prefer sabre, of course, but to make it fair, shall we have at it with the foil, or the epée?”

Renly, for some reason, was purpling, emotions struck by a direct hit Brienne had somehow missed. Miss Lannister was coughing into her hand, and even Mr. Tyrion smirking—

“Renly trains with the epée,” Brienne called, her voice louder than she meant, and she looked down again as Mr. Lannister’s head sharply jerked up.

“And what do you train with?” Mr. Lannister said. She ignored him, letting Renly answer for him; the two men seemed to be bickering as they chose their blades, and Brienne was very afraid she heard the word ‘wench’ thrown in there again.

“It always comes down to swords, with men,” Miss Lannister said to Brienne, rather confidentially. “Men never understand how little we care about them fussing about their _swords_ all the time—"

“I do quite like swords, though,” Brienne said, and Miss Lannister’s mouth twitched again, while Mr. Tyrion’s face was practically covered by both hands. “Sincerely,” Brienne added.

“I find it hard to believe you spent so much of your childhood in the same household as the Baratheons,” Miss Lannister said, “when you are so charming. How old are you again, darling?”

“Eighteen,” Brienne said, to her hands, and so she only heard the slight waver in Miss Lannister’s voice, as Miss Lannister repeated "eighteen", more faintly.

At the first sound of a blade in motion, Brienne’s head darted up.

Mr. Lannister’s hand was devilishly quick; he was inside Renly’s guard within a split-second of start, poking him right in the chest.

“I wasn’t ready,” Renly insisted, and Mr. Lannister did not protest.

He was even faster through his guard, with the same move, their second start. Renly truly was a more than adequate fencer, not top-tier in his Highgarden class and not so diligent in his practice, but as natural an athlete as he was in riding. He looked a beginner, against Mr. Lannister, and Brienne, finding herself sitting very straight, had to remind herself to close her mouth.

“He’s very handsome, isn’t he,” Miss Lannister said, her mouth curved.

“Renly?” Brienne said, reflexively. “Through his helmet?”

“Oh, certainly,” Mr. Tyrion interjected, casting a look at Miss Lannister. “The measure of a man can be found when he is losing, and badly; I see no reason that shouldn’t be true for his attractiveness, as well.”

“He’s only lost one—” But even as Brienne went to object, Jaime Lannister sidestepped Renly’s lunge, pivoting and tapping him with the blade in the back; Renly, mostly by his own momentum, landed face-down on the grass.

He got up, panting through his mask; he was not managing to laugh about it, though he did try to force one. Renly always took Brienne beating him easily enough; it bothered him to lose to Jaime Lannister. Already, he was glancing to the chair Brienne sat in to the side.

“Do you need a moment?” Mr. Lannister said, politely.

“Again, Kingslayer,” Renly growled, sounding rather like Robert for a moment.

“I would be remiss,” Mr. Lannister pointed out, between parries, step forward, step back, one-two, “if I didn’t point out” –worrisomely good footwork, his feet were nearly as quick as his wrist—“the king happens to be very—much—alive.”

“Good as dead,” Renly panted, “and the realm knows it.” His footwork was increasingly sloppy. Miss Lannister was saying something, but Brienne couldn’t quite give her the attention.

Renly was leaving far too much an opening by his groin; Lannister could have hit him there, but he seemed to following sabre rules, where strikes beneath the waist did not count; Brienne doubted he was simply being a gentleman. Three times, he could have struck and did not, he waited and pressed the point of his blade to Renly’s padded neck.

Renly, despite losing the point, jabbed Jaime Lannister in the shoulder and did not apologize, before throwing down his blade. Brienne barely restrained calling his name, in scold; she wasn’t his sister or his anything and had no place doing so.

“I am sorry I cannot offer you better opposition,” Renly said, “myself.”

“Yourself?” Lannister repeated. He glanced to their watchers and laughed. “You cannot mean the—woman. Miss Tarth, that is. My sister would make you a better opponent.”

Brienne turned to his twin, surprisingly brightened at the prospect. “Do you fence?”

“As a child, I was quite as good as my brother at swinging a stick,” Miss Lannister said, staring more at her brother than Brienne. Her expression was hard. “I cannot say I’ve picked up a blade since.”

“Miss Tarth has practiced every day she’s spent at Storm’s End,” Renly swore, staring down Lannister. “She is far my superior.”

“And you suspect my sister would not be?” Lannister said, at once friendly and dangerous, still parrying as he posed the blade like his walking stick.

“Jaime,” Miss Lannister hissed.

“You’ve watched my brother fight, Miss Tarth,” Mr. Tyrion said, raising his voice. “Do you think yourself his match?”

“I train with the sabre,” she said. “I understand that’s his blade, as well.”

“Speak up,” Lannister said, finally taking off his helmet. His chin-length hair did not look sweaty. “Yes, or no, Miss Tarth?”

“The sabre, Jaime,” Tyrion called.

Miss Lannister’s hand suddenly curled over Brienne’s own, tight.

“I know you might think yourself a match for the men,” Miss Lannister said. “You _are_ of a size with them. My brother is of course a gentleman, but _not in this_ , Miss Tarth. There is not a form of fighting he does not take too seriously, and he is not practiced in gentling his style against a woman. So early in our stay, I would not care to see you or your pride injured.”

“I—” Brienne did not know quite what to say. “Thank you for your concern,” she said, trying, as gently as possible, to disentangle herself from Cersei Lannister. “I promise I do not have false confidence in my abilities.”

Renly paused to mutter in her ear, as he handed her own helmet over. “ _Beat his ass, Brienne_ ,” he said, which was not appropriate at all.

“Are you _quite_ sure?” Lannister said, as she took up a pose opposite him.

“ _Va nē_ ,” she said, the classic High Valyrian words of warning before a bout.

She can see his smile through the wire; it is no kinder than his voice.

“ _Ives_ ,” he said back, the shortened form of _let’s go_ , and then he was slashing forward.

He meant to end it early; she could feel his surprise, the blade an extension of his body, when she slashed back in time to counter and pressed him back. They were circling each other within moments; she kept her eyes half on his feet, half on his hands. Attack was easier, and Lannister had chosen attack; that put her on defense, but she could match his speed, almost, and her arm was longer than his, longer than he expected—counter, riposte, parry, she sidestepped his flying lunge, barely, his blade whistled by her ear, and—her slash found purchase in his shoulder.

Lannister stepped back, to reset, and took off his mask. Brienne felt immediate disappointment, at him ending it this soon, but he gestured for her to take off hers as well, with a lift of his blade.

“You’re good enough, we don’t need those,” he said briskly. “ _Va nē,_ then.”

She took off her mask and took up her pose; she could feel the redness in her face and didn’t like to think how she looked. But she didn’t need to think about it, fencing. “ _Ives_ ,” she said, and then Lannister was on her again, counter, parry—

His slash hit her inner thigh, and she flinched at the pain, though it didn’t break the fabric. Lannister swore, with a nod of apology. His sister called his name from the sides, calling a stop, but he took up the pose again. 

Brienne wasn’t thinking of anyone watching, not even Renly and how he wanted her to beat Lannister, only the dance of the blades. Strike after counterstrike after dodge, it was the longest she’d gone without landing a strike—

A sudden new voice startled them both. It sounded like Renly’s laughter, but louder, and underneath it was one equally familiar, insisting this be stopped, at once, _what would the girl’s father say_ —

Brienne’s father had watched her fight many a time. He’d likely say a more decorous version of _beat his ass_ , but she was off balance, aware of the new audience, and while she got her blade up in time to block Lannister’s latest, she swerved much too far, putting her shoulder in his path rather than out of it, a collision that tangled their feet and took them both to the ground. Both kept their blades well away from each other. With focus on that, Lannister wound up far more on top of her than was appropriate.

Stannis and Robert Baratheon, both of them, were pulling them to their feet before Brienne registered anything more than disappointment the fight had ended, so soon.

“I did try to tell you,” Miss Lannister said, swanning up beside them, “you had a new audience.”

Robert Baratheon looked between Lannister and Brienne, and threw back his head again. He was not as handsome as he’d been on his last return; he now looked like a puffier, redder Renly, rather than merely the larger model.

“I’d rather see you box him,” Robert said, sounding as if he was entertaining the idea. “Jaime fucking Lannister. Miss-of-Tarth, you’d beat Kingslayer here into the ground—"

“There are ladies present,” Stannis Baratheon said, flatly.

“How—how are you present?” Brienne said, trying to catch her breath. “Sers?”

“My leave came early; my brother needed passage home,” Stannis said, and Renly met Brienne’s eyes over Stannis’ early-balding head. “We did not expect… guests.”

No cat that got the cream could look so satisfied as Miss Cersei Lannister.

“We’ve met before, at court,” she said, curtsying, in a way that pushed her dipped chest forward. “Do you recall me?" It was not clear which brother she was speaking to; she did not wait for a response. "Miss Cersei Lannister. I’m visiting my brother, dear Tyrion, at Bronzegate, where he has lately taken residence.”

Brienne caught Tyrion mouthing the words ‘Dear Tyrion’, aghast, but no one else seemed to be watching him.

Robert Baratheon certainly was looking at Cersei’s chest, and did not pause in his looking. Stannis glanced, then away, then back again, more askance. Brienne’s attention had been elsewhere, but it was impossible not to notice now: Cersei’s gown was cut on only-just the edge of propriety, which she could skate on given her age, though still a maid and so beautiful. She filled her gown very, very well. Mr. Lannister seemed to be watching her as well, more than the men reacting to her. As if feeling Brienne’s eyes on him, his gaze shifted over. Brienne looked to her shoes. Her thigh stung, where his slash had gone astray.

The Lannisters’ timing was too impeccable, even to the days they’d waited to accept the invitation. They’d known, when Robert and Stannis would be arriving—Miss Lannister’s questions must have been more to ascertain what _they_ knew, in the household, than otherwise.

It seemed the Lannisters had been the ones to catch them on the back foot, after all.

Brienne, conscious of Stannis’ disapproving eye, left at once to change her gear. Mr. Lannister’s voice called after her in the hall.

“Miss Tarth!”

She picked up her hustle.

“Wench!”

At that, she whirled.

“Fair bout,” Lannister said, once he had her attention. He was more out of breath than he’d been after facing Renly. “I would have won.”

“I was winning,” Brienne countered, her outrage rising fast.

“We’ll see,” he said. “Another day?”

Brienne found that difficult to promise and yet, it was impossible to deny she wanted, at once, both to finish the fight and keep it going. “We’ll see,” she said

With any luck, the Lannisters would go back to Bronzegate, before long, and the twins back west, not long after that, and all at Storm’s End would go back as it always was.

‘As it always was’, after all, was the best Brienne ever dared to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title quote is from “selfishness must always be forgiven you know, because there is no hope of a cure”; thank you, Jane, for that incredibly Lannister-esque line, and thanks to you, reader, if you've made it this far, hope you enjoyed
> 
> ...and yes, there will be a time jump at some point, because while trying to handwave timing issues aside led me to still make Brienne 18 here, a la Fanny Price and her book-canon age, insert the Bones "Oh. Oh, good. He's seventeen." gif here.


	2. fool enough at this moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a persistent invitation, a strange sort of balcony interlude, dinner with the Baratheons, and a dramatic reading on what is, to Brienne, an annoying eventful evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm projecting 4 or 5 chapters for this story. I was thinking 3, but this whole bit was supposed to be only the first 1/3 of the plot of *this* chapter so. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> I also normally edit a lot more than I do here (...there has been a distinct lack of editing...) 
> 
> ...but sometimes, you just want to dialogue. 
> 
> I hope this is as fun for you as it was for me <3

The Lannisters made for surprisingly fine companions—in the opinion of everyone but Brienne. Even Renly found them charming enough, though he would and, to Brienne, did deny it.

Cersei Lannister’s wardrobe alone, for she seemed to have brought enough dresses to wear a different one each day, and still change for dinner, was more entertainment than Storm’s End had seen in years. Lady Cassana Baratheon, though years Miss Lannister’s elder, seemed determine to compete—Lady Cassana recruited Brienne to help beat the dust off some of her old dresses, which was better use of Brienne’s talents than helping with letting out the seams.

For all her tongue-tying beauty, Miss Lannister seemed gifted at loosening tongues around her, pressing another cup of wine upon Robert, as if he needed the prompting, and asking pointedly of his athletic triumphs during his student days at the Eyrie. With Stannis, she solicited more in the way of his opinion, how he, if given full rein, would be managing the war effort, naval and otherwise.

Miss Lannister bothered less with Renly, but she drew him out readily enough with talk of court and shared acquaintances. Brienne could hardly blame him, as naturally sociable and affable as Renly was. She expected Mr. Lannister to suffer in comparison, but despite his cooler manner, neither Lannister brother was what anyone could call reserved.

Mr. Jaime Lannister ran his mouth at every opportunity and even when there was none.

“Was it not,” Mr. Lannister said, interrupting Stannis’ dinner-table rundown of a naval engagement he’d led, “a retreat? For I am sure my uncle the Admiral wrote us of your ship’s flight from—"

“Flight is not the term,” Stannis said stiffly. “Strategically, we moved—"

“My grasp of terms is not on par with my brother’s,” Mr. Lannister said, with a nod to Tyrion, “but generally, leaving in great haste can be construed as fleeing, and removing to a prior position a retreat—?”

“A strategic retreat,” Stannis said.

“I defer to you,” Mr. Lannister said, with a head nod that had his hair reflecting the candlelight. “I’m not familiar enough with the experience of retreat to say otherwise. You, Robert, would not be either, I suspect.”

Robert guffawed into his wine. “Strategy,” he said. “It’s a fine way of sneaking about and having your way, when you don’t have the might to strongarm it through.”

Stannis’ gloved thumb flexed on his cup. “You didn’t learn that in the Eyrie,” he said.

“No!” Robert held his cup out toward the table’s head. “From father!”

Stannis’ wince was mild but unmistakable, as Steffon Baratheon leaned forward.

“Tell me, young Jaime,” Lord Steffon said. “Your lack of opinion on strategy, does that come from _your_ father? Seems odd.”

“I didn’t say—” Mr. Lannister began, but his sister intervened, smoothly.

“I was always the better pupil,” she said, smiling. “Of course, my brother—like yourself, Mr. Baratheon,” with a nod toward Robert, “must resign himself to refusing to retreat on the sporting field. The duty of an heir does limit one so, for all its many advantages. We must allow Captain Baratheon his expertise, mustn’t we? For that matter, Captain, I must know your opinion on an old saying… _do_ you find the sea as fickle as a woman?”

Stannis was still for a moment, while Mr. Lannister muttered toward his brother. Robert was frowning, while Brienne found Lord Steffon and his lady, decades more practiced in court exchanges, unreadable. Miss Lannister had patronized and appeased in all directions at once.

Stannis finally answered, “I find it less so,” and Miss Lannister let out a peal of laughter.

Mr. Tyrion stood suddenly up on his chair, hoisting his cup. “We have yet to toast,” he said. “To the fickleness of women and strategic retreats—that’s a fine enough cause. To House Baratheon!”

He raised his glass and others followed.

“Ours _is_ the fury,” Renly said, sipping quickly. Robert had already resumed antagonizing Stannis.

Brienne made it through that dinner, and the following days’, without saying a word.

Tyrion Lannister managed to get all the Baratheon men stumbling three nights running with one post-dinner drinking game or another; the ladies did not partake, and though Jaime Lannister did, the scale did not seem comparable. Brienne saw him when at night’s end he’d come to offer his arm to escort his sister to her chambers, and Mr. Lannister’s stride was steady though his eyes held the additional glimmer of drink.

Mr. Lannister did not fail to ask, nightly and formally, if Miss Tarth would resume their fencing match ‘on the morrow’. He managed to keep doing so within Lady Cassana’s hearing and worse, Stannis’, who’d already quietly taken Brienne aside and said he hoped he wouldn’t have to tell his father, next he saw him, that Brienne had been training with such a partner as the Kingslayer.

Brienne’s answer to Mr. Lannister, accordingly, remained, “We’ll see.”

She’d been keeping up fencing practice only in her own chambers with the Lannisters about. The regular schedule of Storm’s End had been turned all about with the change in residence. Robert insisted all should wait for him before leaving on a morning ride, yet he stayed so late abed it quickly became an afternoon ride. None of the current horses stabled at Storm’s End were quite the charger Robert had in mind to bear his increasing weight. Renly liked lithe, fast horses and had a mind to breed them for racing, so offered up Brienne’s preferred sturdy mare.

“You don’t mind?” Renly said, too distracted for it to truly be a question, as the two of them sorted out the horses. “She’s reliable, and most used to a sizeable rider, and won’t let Robert push her beyond reason; he wants my two-year old sand steed, because of course he does, but I’ve half a thought Robert would turn him lame the second he sits him!”

Brienne pitied her mare, but she saw Renly’s point.

“I’ve the other half of that thought, myself,” she agreed, and received Renly’s best smile, more resplendent than usual as he’d decked himself out in his sharpest riding clothes.

Brienne as such wound up with Storm’s End oldest horse, who she knew better than to push too hard, and bringing up the rear of the ride with Tyrion Lannister, who had very politely turned down Robert’s less-polite suggestion they find him a pony and brought out his own specially-made saddle.

Brienne failed to wear a hat, not accustomed to one in the early hours she usually rode, and Tyrion had to tell her, “Miss Tarth, while I first assumed my presence was simply scandalizing you, I believe I must instead credit the sun—you’re turning a rather interesting shade of pink.”

Brienne was, therefore, pink, sore, and already peeling, through the later afternoon, as the rest of the party began drinking. Only Stannis abstained. Though wine during the day tended to give Brienne a headache, she sipped lightly on a drier white wine. It took the edge of both her sunburn and her embarrassment, as Miss Lannister pronounced her a charming pastel pink.

Miss Lannister’s sweet compliments struck like slaps.

“You are so very reserved,” Miss Lannister remarked. Her wine sips had a delicacy that made Brienne question her own, but she certainly took them with great frequency. She gestured with her glass, tilting her head to study Brienne. “You would fit rather well in a pastoral, Miss Tarth. You have that look about you.”

She did not clarify what look, but Brienne had seen enough pastoral plays enough to have the suspicion Miss Lannister was rendering her as either scenery, sheep or cattle, or some rural, simple personage. Brienne thanked her nonetheless, and was relieved when Tyrion Lannister seized the mention of pastorals to bring the conversation to a discussion of theater, but it bothered her enough she stole a moment on a Storm’s End balcony to speak to Renly.

Being Renly, he laughed.

“You _would_ make a sturdy shepherdess,” Renly said, before noticing from either her expression or stiffness she was truly bothered. “Oh come now, Brienne, I find Cersei Lannister conniving enough, but I don’t believe it so ill meant; her intentions are not toward you.”

Looking back inside, Miss Lannister was refilling glasses, pouring the wine from an unnecessary height as if to demonstrate her hand control. Both Lord and Lady Baratheon had joined them, and Lady Baratheon was looking rather hopefully between Miss Lannister and Robert, who’d reached, with dinner yet to be served, a state of sullen leering. 

As Renly and Baratheon watched, at Miss Lannister’s insistence, Stannis finally accepted a glass. Stannis’ lips, very faintly, turned upward. Brienne was fairly certain she’d never seen that happen in Stannis’ departed wife’s presence.

“Speaking of her intentions,” Renly muttered, and slipped back inside.

Brienne sighed and looked over the balcony’s edge. This side of Storm’s End faced inland, and over the low pine-covered mountains before her, she saw a flash of lightning, dim against the still-light sky. No thunder, as yet, but the air boded of the weather which gave the Stormlands their name. The wind was picking up, carrying the sea and the waves’ sound from the other side of the comfortable old fortress.

“Miss Tarth,” Mr. Lannister’s voice said, from behind her, and Brienne, to her dismay, jumped like a child, her hand going to her throat.

“I have a question for you,” he said, staying in the shadows, and, she noticed, out of the sightline of those inside. “Of some pressing importance.”

Brienne stared at him. “When we’ll fence again?” she blurted, unable to think of anything else.

Lannister laughed lightly, but his eyes remained serious.

“Has Steffon Baratheon ever given you cause for concern?”

“Lord Steffon?” Brienne said, aghast.

“Arthur Dayne once famously had to remove him, by force, from a young woman. One of noble birth, for that matter. That did not give him pause, in his cups, though he was a younger man then.”

It took Brienne a moment to understand. “You’re concerned for your sister, of course—"

“I am concerned,” Mr. Lannister said, “for any young lady under the Baratheons’ roof. For more than one reason.”

Brienne had seen Robert, and his father, drunk enough, often enough, to understand his meaning.

“There are enough willing, beautiful women, if they but go a little ways,” she said, her own voice cast low. “The Baratheons are well-loved, in their own lands… and under Lady Cassana’s roof, with her in residence, servants have little to fear, let alone _me_. Let alone Tywin Lannister’s daughter.” _However beautiful she is_ , Brienne thought but did not say, _the Baratheons were not_ quite _such fools, nor such villains_. 

“I am glad of that,” Mr. Lannister said, and sounded it. He moved to return inside.

“But—wait,” Brienne said. His eyebrows furrowed, but he did wait. “You knew Arthur Dayne? You belonged to his club, I suppose?”

Dayne’s gentleman’s club was the most famous beyond the walls of King’s Landing, particularly for its rules of sportsmanship and contests of skill; it had changed names several times, and Arthur had never named it after himself in the first place, but everyone still called it Dayne’s.

“ _Belong_ ,” Mr. Lannister corrected, his voice a knife, and then he cocked his head, considering. When he spoke again, the usual sharpness was in his tone, but once again sheathed in velvet. “You haven’t heard that particular story about me, then. Do me a favor—don’t ask.”

And with that and a step through the door, he was gone.

At dinner Lord Steffon mentioned, with a disgruntled look at the ceiling at the first thunderclap, that he had business to attend and would have to depart before the weather worsened, to make good time. Robert said to his mother, not quietly enough, he was surprised his father had lasted this long with Lannisters afoot, and Lady Cassana looked ready to pick the Baratheon heirloom warhammer off the wall where it hung and brain her son with it.

Covering, Lady Cassana mentioned that perhaps Lord Steffon’s business would bring him into company with the Lannisters’ lord father, how ironic. Tyrion Lannister was clearly dying to comment on whether or not that’s irony, but Lord Steffon, first, and most sourly, said he was certain it would.

Miss Lannister took up the next change of topic by turning to Captain Baratheon.

“I hear you are a father yourself, Captain,” she said, “but your child is not in residence in Storm’s End?”

Stannis paused from methodically cutting his steak. “I maintain my own household, near Blackwater Bay,” he said. “With a governess and tutor in place, there is no need to disrupt Shireen’s situation or impose her upon another household.” Someone must have looked to Brienne—she was determinedly staring at her plate, so could not have said who—as Stannis cleared his throat and added, “Admiral Tarth had other considerations, of course, in sending Brienne to Storm’s End. Shireen is not half so willful.”

“Willful!” Miss Lannister cried, and Brienne had to look up. “Have you been holding back on us, Miss Tarth?”

Stannis, matter-of-factly, speared a square of steak with his fork and gestured. “Miss Tarth escaped her minders on more than one occasion, in cabin-boy dress. Her father’s ship had departed Evenfall Harbor before she was discovered, the last time. That sort of willfulness, of course, is outgrown over time, and,” Stannis nodded at his mother, “in no small part thanks to Storm’s End.”

“Outgrown, indeed,” Miss Lannister said, her eyes flitting over Brienne’s shoulders, before she moved her wine glass in a way that managed to emphasize her own very-grown chest, “as so goes the days a girl could pass as a boy.” Something sour twisted Miss Lannister’s tone at the last, escaping her usual sweet coating. She took another sip of wine.

“So if you were a man, Miss Tarth,” Miss Lannister suddenly pressed, and Brienne started. She had to grab her own wine glass to keep from choking on a piece of bread. “You would be sailing and serving, alongside your father?”

“How commendable,” Tyrion Lannister jumped in, but Miss Lannister outright lifted her hand at him, waiting for Brienne’s answer.

Brienne swallowed, hard. “I suppose I would.”

“Although—you are his heir?”

Lord Steffon interceded. “Admiral Tarth elected to serve kingdom first as a boy; his island’s council serves him well enough.”

“Not kingdom,” Brienne said, automatically, but softly.

“Beg pardon?” Mr. Lannister asked from across the table, with such intensity Brienne felt sure he’d heard her right.

“Said,” Lord Steffon repeated, louder, “Tarth’s council serves him well enough. It’s a small enough piece of the Stormlands, when all’s said, doesn’t need so heavy a hand. Now, where’s dessert?”

“Miss Lannister,” Renly said, in his deliberately-cheerful tone, which Brienne knew to be his most dangerous, “I believe you have been unfair.” He waited for her to react, before adding, “You have posed an interesting question and yet not answered it for yourself. If you were a man, what would you be doing?”

Miss Lannister’s curving smile wavered, oddly. “I must give you a dull, and obvious, answer,” she said. “For if I were a man, I would be Jaime.” She clarified that she was the elder—she would be the heir, in his place exactly, and there was no question she would look like him. There was something unnerving already, in all the ways they mirrored each other, and yet divided by how each seemed to epitomize their gender.

“Nonetheless you would not be him, my lady.” Stannis, very dismissive, seemed sure of himself. He did not notice Miss Lannister stiffen at the common-enough honorific. Regardless of her parentage, she would never be addressed as Lady Cersei unless she married a lord of the realm. Which she had yet to do. “Were I the heir to Storm’s End,” Stannis continued, “I would not be Robert. Nor would Renly.”

Renly visibly did not know whether to take this as praise or insult. Robert had passed into bleariness and looked ready to pass out; his eyes were red as he drank and swayed in his seat.

“You would compose yourself in ways befitting your inner character,” Stannis continued, and Renly, having decided to be insulted, caught Brienne’s eye, his expression all concern over Stannis’ rating of Miss Lannister’s ‘inner character’.

“Quite right,” Miss Lannister said, her smile curved naturally again and aimed right at Mr. Lannister. “I should be more content in the role, myself. Jaime made his own attempt to join the military, when barely more than a child himself; I do believe he is almost sorry, not to be at war.”

Robert roused, enough to raise his glass. “Hear, hear!” he roared, interrupting the quieter conversation his parents were holding.

Mr. Lannister reached to lift his own glass and put it forward, looking mocking all the while. “I suspect I would as much like Captain Baratheon’s place as he would like mine.”

Stannis’ jaw worked. “I see no appeal,” he said, “in a life of indolence and inaction, imposed by peership or otherwise.”

“Ah,” Tyrion Lannister said, pulling attention his way. “You will most certainly not approve of me.”

He was too late; Mr. Lannister’s eyes were narrowed and he’d set down his cup. His pose became increasingly langorous.

“I should welcome any advisement,” he said, “of an occupation my father would allow and you, Captain Baratheon, would find commendable. Renly, have you found one? For a third son, you have deftly avoided the traditional paths.” A Maester’s chain, the military, or even a septon’s robes: any of the three would be acceptable, any other occupation frowned on. But Renly handled most of an heir’s duty at Storm’s End, filling what should have been Robert’s role while his brother caroused; the role required little but being at his father’s beck and call and charming the Stormlands’ lesser lords, but Renly did it well. He’d be a better successor to Lord Steffon than either of his brothers.

Brienne bristled on his behalf.

“If I were _you_ , Mr. Lannister,” she said, “and both in need of an occupation and short no means but the ability to obtain a military commission, I should simply buy myself a ship and put myself to purpose. There are messages across the Summer Sea in need of ferrying, both for kingdom and for kindness; there are wounded and refugees in need of transport, and one small yacht, such as one sees in King's Landing every day, might do more good than one knows, under active hands putting it to purpose.”

It was silent, when she finished. Everyone was watching her, except Robert, who had come to only enough to drain the remainder of his cup.

Brienne flushed, knowing she must be pinker than ever behind her sunburn, and looked back down.

“You speak with your father’s tongue, I see,” Miss Lannister said pleasantly, finally breaking the silence.

Lady Cassana coughed. “I can’t say I’ve heard Selwyn Tarth quite speak of that,” she said, and when Brienne dared to look up, she found Lord and Lady Baratheon both watching her aghast, but not displeased.

“He—he writes of such issues, and it appeared to me… such a craft might have a chance of filling the mentioned gaps.” Brienne rushed out the words, hoping to move on from the topic. She did not want Renly to realize it was the sort of task she dreamed he might take up, that, in her more critical moments, she wondered why he did not.

“You surmised it,” Mr. Lannister said. He was watching her, unnervingly avidly.

“It’s a pretty thought,” Renly said lightly. “Brienne—” Stannis glared at his informality—"has always loved books of adventurers, heroic knights of old, since we were children. Ferrying messages without a country flag would like be a fast way to be hung in Essos as a spy, but a worthy dream, to be sure.”

Renly’s attempt to rescue the conversation lifted her as much as his dismissal of her thought brought her down; Brienne found herself feeling surprisingly level.

“I wanted a dragon,” Tyrion Lannister said, so abruptly Brienne first wondered if his drinking tolerance had been exceeded. “My own lingering dream from childhood books, I’m afraid… a far less worthy, and less likely, one than your own.”

A thunderclap punctuated Tyrion’s remark, and Lord Steffon excused himself, to bed to early rise. When Lady Cassana followed him out, Tyrion seized the opportunity to suggest further amusement.

“We are certainly,” Stannis said coolly, “not participating in a drinking game with ladies present.”

The wonder, really, was that Stannis had been participating in a drinking game at _all_ , but brotherly competition could work miracles.

“Let us talk of dragons and heroes and wicked things.” Tyrion spread his arms wide. The increasingly close and closer-timed thunder rumbled. “Does Storm’s End not have a library? Let us have a dramatic reading, or three. Let us, if we be indolent, at least be _cultured_.”

Knowing or not, Tyrion had found the magic word, for Stannis and Renly both. Renly got right to his feet, and Stannis, sitting straighter, allowed that sounded like a proper-enough amusement.

Robert managed to stumble along with them—somehow, to both Mr. Lannister and Stannis’ tight-mouthed displeasure, he wound up being guided to the library on Miss Lannister’s coaxing arm.

After much ordering of his taller compatriots to fetch down one higher-shelf book or another, Tyrion announced the Storm’s End library woefully short on enough copies of each play to go round.

“There’s at least two of _The Conquerer_ ,” he said, “and Jaime, you know Aegon’s part in the famous opening.” He handed Miss Lannister one copy. “You may be one of his sister-wives, sister ours—” Cersei’s eyes were cold emeralds, as she accepted, and Brienne cringed as Tyrion turned toward her.

“And I,” Tyrion announced, waving the second copy, “shall play the other.”

Robert and Renly broke into identical laughter, while Stannis simply asked which would be which.

Tyrion took the role of Rhaenys for himself, letting Miss Lannister read Visenya, bowing and letting her continue, without further preamble, with the preamble. Visenya had outlived her brother who received credit for the ancient conquest of Westeros and her fellow sister-wife; the prologue and epilogue were hers.

Miss Lannister read the character Visenya’s bitter introduction well, which made way for Mr. Lannister’s part to enter the scene. He stepped far enough back to stride up dramatically.

He looked, suddenly, like a king, as he spoke for Aegon. Brienne had always found The Conquerer rather stilted and dull. Mr. Lannister made its words quicksilver. His every word precise, she fully believed him as a fierce, petulant genius of the battlefield who’d murder a man soon as look at him—and then Tyrion Lannister jumped in, shifting between his own speaking voice and a pitched falsetto, whichever would maximize hilarity. Miss Lannister seemed to be reading her words right at Stannis, though Mr. Lannister, into the part, stepped to speak lines addressed to Visenya right by her ear. They only read five pages, but Brienne found herself fighting the urge to clap, at the end.

Renly had a true grin on his face and called for more, but including himself, next.

“There’s a part for a Baratheon in there,” he said, meaning his many-times removed ancestor Orys Baratheon, who had a few key scenes with Aegon in the play. “Let’s see how we face against each other on this field, eh, Lannister?”

“Alas, I was never inclined to memorize more than the opening,” Mr. Lannister said, not sounding very sorry. He moved to sit back down, but Renly kept thumbing through the play.

“There’s only two parts in this scene—"

“I’ll read Aegon,” Tyrion said quickly.

“When Mr. Jaime Lannister seemed so comfortable in a Targaryen’s place,” Stannis said, in a too-soft voice, “why should he not continue to take it?”

Mr. Jaime Lannister was tired, according to the man himself, who seemed annoyed. He was inclining his head to Miss Lannister, plainly expecting her to jump in, but she only handed him her copy of the play.

“Come on, Lannister,” Renly cajoled, and something very akin to panic flashed over Jaime Lannister’s face. It was only a flash, but he continued to deny, with disinterest that seemed very feigned and very at odds with his commanding read moments before—

But then he hadn’t _read_ ; he’d repeated from memory.

Renly pressed more insistently, particularly the more it seemed to annoy Lannister.

“I haven’t read yet,” Brienne finally said, shooting to her feet. Renly gave her an amazed look, but Mr. Lannister held out the second play copy to her at once.

“There, you have a conquerer,” he said, and leaned back in his chair, eyes hooded, in a half-sleep that seemed extremely feigned.

Brienne stumbled her way through the reading, but her face couldn’t get redder than it had already been that night, and Renly shone in contrast. They went as far as Orys’ famous Storm Queen monologue, when Robert’s sudden snore interrupted. Renly still finished, but they all, smiling, with more sincerity than over any dinner, then called it a night. Robert was dragged off on both his brothers’ arms, audibly complaining ‘the Lannister woman’ had made for a better crutch.

Mr. Lannister gave Brienne a brief, but very deliberate, nod. “Fence against me on the morrow?” he said. “It’d be a pity, wouldn’t it, if we only ever had the one fight—and that one unfinished?”

Miss Lannister had exited alongside the Baratheons, clucking at Robert’s distress. Only Tyrion Lannister was about still, pretending to read his play. Truly, Brienne should not have been left alone in the presence of two men who could not even be excused under the ‘distant-cousins’ relation, as could the Baratheons… but no one at Storm’s End had ever paid enough attention to worry about her reputation.

“Oh, very well,” Brienne said, as if uneager, “after Lord Steffon has departed, fine; Captain Baratheon may object, and Lady Cassana may not approve, but the house will be under Robert’s reign in his absence.”

Mr. Lannister did not ask whether she would wear breeches, though his eyes did dart down to her skirt-covered legs, so briefly she imagined he couldn’t help thinking it.

“That leaves you and I little enough time to spar before our visit to Storm’s End concludes,” Mr. Lannister began—

“Oh, nonsense.” Tyrion closed his book copy with a snap. “You all know we’re inviting you to Bronzegate next; a Lannister must at very least match the Baratheons’ hospitality, so you face a week yet in our constant company. The weather bodes ill—"

“It always bodes ill,” Brienne said.

“It bodes iller,” Tyrion said, then stopped. “More ill. I’m either drunk or have spent too many hours altering my speech simply to torment Stannis Baratheon, take your pick. With such a crowd, and such weather, and such sudden lack of his lordship, only one sort of gathering can be called for.”

Mr. Lannister, eyes alarmed, stepped between them as if he was cutting in on a dance. “Whatever my brother is about to say, my lady, please—"

Brienne barely had a moment to wonder when she had become _my lady_ before Tyrion, waving, said, “No, no, you idiot, not _that_ sort of a gathering in _this_ company—we’re going to put on a play.”


End file.
